


Bruttiboni

by tzigane, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Series: Collations [10]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Long term management of mental illness, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21554059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/pseuds/tzigane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: People were so fucking stupid when it came to love.It made him wonder what the hell he was thinking, getting involved again. Greg was nothing like any of the people who had been involved with today's utter clusterfuck, but it still put his nerves on edge, made him tense and miserable.He was going to blame Lady Heather somewhere in the back of his head, because there was that, too, that urge to curl up in a small space and just rest. There was the cusp edge of a feeling, like he'd been starting to try to get a hold of something and now his hands were empty.
Relationships: Will Graham/Greg Sanders
Series: Collations [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/144699
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Bruttiboni

He'd told Brass what he was doing, what he was looking for, that he just needed time to rummage his brain together to solve the case because there was so much evidence and nothing that tied it together. Someone needed him to find the string that could hold it all together.

And he needed some idea of what he was into. Will had politely called Heather and asked if she were free to talk. That had netted him an invitation to tea so he'd shown up in the hopes that he wouldn't have to be rude if presented with something utterly unpalatable. Luckily for him, tea seemed to be just that -- lemon on offer, milk but no sugar, and tiny cucumber sandwiches that were meant more for popping into the mouth than outright eating. It was charming, surprising, and he found that he was quite enjoying himself.

"I'm missing something," Will admitted as he added a little lemon to his tea. "The obvious wrong answers are too loud."

"I find that an interesting way to phrase it." Heather was beautiful, and he could see where someone would find both the woman and her theatre of sex terrifying and impossible to resist simultaneously. "What are the wrong answers?"

"Rebecca McCormick. She's the obvious connection. It's loud. Pressuring. And wrong. She didn't do it. She enjoyed them, more than her husband. And it's..." He brought his thumb to his mouth after setting the lemon aside, brushed the excess juice off of his tongue. "Frustrating."

"And you accepted my invitation to tea because?" Good question.

"Because it's something in the community. This was an intimate, personal punishment, by someone who..." Felt wronged, except that wasn't it, that wasn't the right story. It wasn't revenge, but it was. It was proxy. "Was doing it for someone else."

Heather lifted her cup to her lips and sipped slowly, the motion genteel. "Your Captain Brass believes that I am the guilty party."

"I think Jim doesn't know what to do with his sexual attraction to someone he considers not his usual type." Will scruffed fingers at the back of his neck, taking a slow sip of his own tea. No sugar, diabetic, but not right. Not right, and he could see dirt, he could see mushrooms, and he briefly wanted to vomit before it was gone again. "If you wanted them dead, you would have fired them first. Who, who has access to your diabetes medication?"

The way her cup paused on its way to her lips said that she had made a connection, immediate and heart-sinking. "Just myself and Chloe."

"Tell me about Chloe." He remembered her, sweet eyes, insistent in her need to submit, but determined to the point where she didn't really realize she was barking up a tree that was another dog and not a tree at all.

"Chloe has been here for quite some time. Mr. McCormick hoped that if they shared sessions with Chloe and Rebecca, his wife might come to submit in a similar manner." Heather placed her cup in her saucer. "It isn't that I haven't made certain connections. It is simply that I can't imagine Chloe doing such a thing."

"Unfortunately, I can. Steven McCormick wanted to make Rebecca in Chloe's image. But people, submissives, aren't a thermostat you can dial up to get exactly what you want. And Chloe... loved him? Loved his style?"

Heather shifted. "I hadn't thought she was so devoted. Chloe has perhaps been a bit more in need of constant submission, to the point where I brought her to live at my Dominion. I had thought that it would be... sufficient for her needs. Clearly I should have paid more attention."

Will took another sip of his tea. "Where is she now? I need to call, get a warrant, though your cooperation has been appreciated."

"Let me check with the scheduling department." That made sense, that the events of the Dominion would need to be tightly arranged for maximum profit. Heather might be the BDSM equivalent of a whorehouse madam, but she was clearly an excellent businesswoman.

There was a lot to admire about her and Will was going to keep it there, at admiration, as he slouched back in his chair and nodded, cup resting in his lap. He had half a sense of urgency, and nowhere to go with it, so he might as well stay where he was. "Thank you."

Thanks, even though he could tell from the line of tension that was her spine that she was honestly disturbed by the possibility -- probability, truth be told -- that a submissive she clearly trusted enough to allow her into her personal life could be the kind of person who would kill someone.

It was shocking for each and every individual who experienced it, and it was simultaneously an old old tale that hadn't been new since before fire was discovered. Will fished his cell phone out while Heather worked and he texted Brass _'Chloe Samms. Need a warrant on her space in the Dominion, Heather's insulin and injector. Samms's prints will be on.'_

He saw the expression on Heather's face when he looked up and he knew where they would find Chloe Samms. He didn't have to ask, and she didn't have to say anything. He took one last gulp of his tea, and stood up as he thumbed his phone over to call in to dispatch. "CSI Graham, I need an officer to go to the McCormick house. The wife is in danger." There was no chance that he could get there in time. Despite that, his pulse was racing, panic setting in because he'd known the day would come when this happened; when it was life or death and not just him racing against the evidence to try and stop things before they got this far.

"She uses the boa as a garrote. Breathplay." Yes. Her expression still held shock and dismay and no small amount of betrayal. "She'll be at their home."

Which was why he'd already called it in to dispatch and was getting his keys out of his pocket. "Thank you for the tea." After that, bolting for it was his only option.

"Mr. Graham." Heather stood, spine straight, expression resolute. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry." There was nothing else to say because Chloe Samms would never be coming back to the Dominion again. He let himself out, jogged out to the car, and managed not to fumble his keys as he it started up.

He hoped he got there, or someone from the force got there, in time.

~*~*~*~

He didn't know if he'd gotten through to Steve McCormick or Rebecca, but they were both alive even if they needed to get their shit together. They seemed to have no idea how lucky they were, even if Chloe had gotten into the house.

People were so fucking stupid when it came to love.

It made him wonder what the hell he was thinking, getting involved again. Greg was nothing like any of the people who had been involved with today's utter clusterfuck, but it still put his nerves on edge, made him tense and miserable.

He was going to blame Lady Heather somewhere in the back of his head, because there was that, too, that urge to curl up in a small space and just rest. There was the cusp edge of a feeling, like he'd been starting to try to get hold of something and now his hands were empty.

Mal was waiting anxiously by the door as soon as he opened it, and he didn't skitter off in a rush to be let out like Andorra and Winny. Instead, he rubbed close against Will's legs and whined when he tried to put him out.

"It's okay, buddy. Go out and then we can all eat." He crouched down, nudged him forward slowly to the back door. His patience felt worn thin, but Mal just wanted to comfort him.

There was nothing to do for it except nudge him out of the door as gently as possible and make sure he couldn't come back in until Will was sure that he had actually gone to potty. He lingered by the door, head dropped back against the wall. He was just so tired, so discouraged, and he didn't want to see human beings anytime soon.

Maybe he should call and take a few days. Just to get himself back together.

When he started making internal judgement calls on who should live and who should die, that was when Will needed to rest.

He needed to stop thinking and feeling and everything dragged up by this fuck all mess. He had to pull himself back together, and maybe he should just quit. The evidence-based approach was good for him; he liked it and he had been enjoying himself immensely, but he had forgotten that he couldn't turn it off, couldn't get his head to wrap around things without involving himself so completely that he couldn't get out of his head... or the head of Chloe Samms.

It was as good a reason not to call Greg as any just then. No one deserved to have to put up with him in that moment, not when he was out of his head. Maybe that was something he needed to let go of, too, and it made him sick a little at the core to think about it. The thing with Greg was good. He wanted it, he really did, but he was just going to fuck it up. Maybe he'd run him off, maybe he'd get him killed. Maybe Hannibal would brave Vegas just to break Will's shiny new toy.

He just... he couldn't do this, and he covered his face with his hands and tried to breathe.

There wasn't much else he could do except try to breathe and calm down. There was no reason for him to be wound up in the first place except that he was tired and afraid of things that hadn't happened yet. 

Things that always, always followed. Things that he couldn't avoid because they were inevitable.

Will had no idea how long he sat there. A while, because he could hear the dogs whimpering at the door, Mal scratching near the bottom. There was someone knocking at the front door, too.

He shifted, staggered to his feet and let the dogs back into the house in the same gesture. "Sorry, sorry..." Door, door knocking, and he stretched slowly as he started to the front door to open it.

It was telling of his state of mind that he don't pick up his sidearm before he opened the door. Worse, he didn't look, and there was Greg, expression tight and worried. "Hey."

"Hey. Sorry, I was..." He gestured vaguely at nothing in particular. "Staring at a wall."

"Brass said you looked kind of like you might need somebody to check on you." He lingered in the doorway, waiting for an invitation.

Will wasn't sure if he could give one. "Probably." He stepped back, and that was a close as he was going to get to permission. "Sorry, that was rough."

For a moment, it seemed that Greg might not take the invitation, that he might keep decorating Will's door frame for a bit. Then he came inside, tentative and watching Will closely. It made him feel like he was dangerous, and that didn't help matters. "Hey." Greg stepped within reach of him and put out a hand to catch Will's. "I'm worried about you. Where are the dogs?"

"I, I thought I let them back in..." He turned a little, half grasping Greg's hand and looking over his shoulder. "Mal?" And then they came in through the doggie door in a bolt. Christ, he'd even scared his dogs. He'd sat up against the doggie door for he wasn't sure how long. He needed to make sure they had fresh water down. 

"C'mon. Sit down, I'll take care of the dogs." Just like it was that easy, like Greg shouldn't take off running from the mere sight of him.

"Sorry. I, uh." He let go of Greg's hand, and looked at the front door that was already pulled shut, rubbed fingers over his eyes instead. "Did everything right today, and it still feels bad."

"Come on," Greg repeated, tugging him over to the sofa. He sat, feeling fragile, and Mal jumped up onto the seat next to him, whining. "I'll fix you something to drink, get fresh water for the dogs."

"Thanks." He slid an arm around Mal, scruffing fingers through his fur before hugging him tight, swallowing back a noise that felt like pain.

Time passed. He knew that it did because he blinked at some point and Greg was standing in front of him with acetaminophen in his hand and a glass of water, looking worried. "Hey." His voice was soft. "Take these. Do you keep meds somewhere, Will?"

"Hmn? Yeah, in the bathroom. Top shelf." He took the water, too, sipped it carefully, kept his other arm around Mal as he sunk in closer.

He knew that he was in the wrong place in his head, knew that things had gone... sideways. Worse than sideways, but he couldn't seem to care, and then Greg was back and there was something that tasted orange and bitter on his tongue, and he dozed off somewhere in there. He dozed, and he clung on to Mal, still petting him with slow and sloppy motions. Mal was a good boy, and he was tired, tired of having the wrong place in his head. It was horrible, being at home and feeling like he wanted to _go_ home.

It took a while to come back to himself. When he did, the light filtering in the windows said that it was late evening, and Greg was sitting at the bar, poking at an open box of pizza.

"Hey." Mal was nowhere to be seen, but he felt calmer, mellower as he groggily got to his feet. Staggered. Whatever it was. "Greg? You don't have to stay, I'm, I'm already more together..."

Greg's head jerked up and he looked at him, relief written all over him. "Yeah, I do have to stay. You were sitting there completely out of it, and the dogs were frantic, and I was...." Clearly worried. Fuck.

"I'm sorry." It was why Molly had left, it was why anyone _sane_ left, and why Will had nothing but dogs who didn't have a better option and photographs on his wall. He leaned a hip on the couch. "I didn't mean to worry you. The Samms case..."

"Was bad. I know. Brass feels bad about it." Greg moistened his lips and rose from the stool, walking towards Will. "I probably completely overstepped my bounds, but I told him you can't do cases like that anymore. Not live cases, not... You can't. And I definitely overstepped my bounds about four hours ago. And I'm sorry, except for the fact that I'm not sorry at all."

"The worst thing was, they were just... shits. They were self-absorbed shitheads." He rubbed the back of his head, and he edged in closer to Greg. "But we caught her. Before two turned to three or four."

Greg reached out and snagged his free hand, thumb caressing at the bone of his wrist. "Yeah, I know. I do know, only you need to worry more about you and less about everything else."

"Not so good at that." He wandered in, snagged a piece of pizza, watching Greg. "What did you overstep?"

It was clear that he didn't want to answer that from the way he glanced away and bit his lower lip. "I remembered you talking about a friend of yours and I thought... you know, I thought that maybe it was time to call someone who could help better than me."

He went still with a mouthful of half chewed warm cheese and bread, and then said, "You called Alana."

"Yes." Yes, and those dark eyes were begging him not to be angry, pleading with him. "I'm not sorry."

"Mm." He swallowed, closed his eyes tight for a moment. "It's probably not that bad. I'm feeling better."

Hands on him, and they were begging, too, in their own way. He couldn't give Greg what he wanted. "Okay, I am sorry, except I'm not, and I know that sounds insane, but..."

"But?" He felt his voice break a little, and he was tired. "You, you can do a lot better than this, you can, I'm such a fucking mess."

"But I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry I called her, I'm not sorry she's coming, I'm just sorry I dug into your business because I invaded your privacy, I went through your stuff, I..." That was when Greg stepped closer, pressed against him, pulled him in tightly. Hands moved to cup his face, touch him, and then Greg's forehead was against his. "I like you. I more than like you. You've got a right to be a mess after today. I'd be more worried if you weren't."

He dropped his hands to Greg's hips, pulled him in closer because it was comfortable and warm and he moved into Greg like water. "I'm sorry you went through my stuff, too. That was probably..." Eye opening. He was still there, apparently, despite what he would have found. Will knew what he would've found, letters and pictures and notebooks from case files, chronologically ordered. He didn't need them to remember them, but sometimes there was something steeling in having physical proof of a memory.

The way Greg loosened, the shaky way he breathed, said so much. Will could practically taste the tang of salt in the air. "No. No, I didn't open anything that didn't seem like it would send me in the right direction. I just didn't think you'd want anybody to know who didn't need to know."

"Pretty sure the whole world knows I'm a fucking mess." Just not the specifics. He ducked his head in, and didn't let go. "But thanks. You, I appreciate it."

Greg's arms shifted, moved to wrap around his neck, to hold him, and Will tucked his face against Greg's neck. "C'mon. We'll go lie down. Nap or something until Dr. Bloom gets here."

"I always feel like I'm disappointing her. At least I had a medical reason for the time I dismantled my fireplace." He liked the feeling of being held, of holding Greg, even if they were standing up. It gave him something to focus on.

The feel of that hum was good against the bridge of his nose. "You've got a pretty good reason today. You managed to catch a killer and you weren't expecting more than evidence. Not really."

"There's no hard line where one blurs into the other, unfortunately." He shifted a little, inhaled slowly and then tilted his head back. "Bed?" Will could eat a little pizza on his way there.

Greg nodded, let Will loose. "For a little bit. I'll need to head to the airport in five or six hours." To pick up Alana, he didn't say, but that was all right.

"When's your next shift?" He knew the answer to it, but he also wanted to reassert that he was right about how much time had passed. Or wrong about it, either or.

"Tomorrow night, but I took it off. I was worried about you, and I didn't want to leave you alone." Yeah.

He wanted to protect. He'd been in a lot worse situations with a lot worse care. It had been horrible, which made it easy to nod, and pull at Greg, and give a quiet tch of sound that would invite the dogs along, though Winny invited herself regardless. "I think I love you."

Yeah. That. That smile, that right there, it made him want to kiss Greg with a desperate kind of need. "That's good. I think I kind of love you, too."


End file.
